


To Be Seen

by lusilly



Series: Earth-28 [18]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Resentment, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 14:58:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10414743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusilly/pseuds/lusilly
Summary: After a bad year, Damian is granted permission to return to Robin. He asks first that he may be allowed some time alone, and he meets Iris and Lian for the first time in over a year on the banks of the Danube. Like he did before, he leaves first.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Tied tightly into the end of Restoration. Damian's "bad time" is dealt with in Fiat iusticia. Pretty amazing to remember where Lian and Damian's friendship goes after this, and what power Irey inherits. Enjoy!

To _feel_ anything  
deranges you. To be seen  
_feeling_ anything strips you  
naked. In the grip of it  
pleasure or pain doesn’t  
matter. You think what  
will they do what new  
power will they acquire _if_  
_they see me naked like_  
_this_. If they see you  
_feeling_. You have no idea  
_what_. It’s not about _them_.  
To be seen is the penalty.

-Anne Carson,  _Red Doc >_

_\----_

           Damian was working in his room, his wide artist’s desk covered with massive sketching paper on which he meticulously measured corners and bisected lines, working on his revised draft of the proposed Martha Wayne Building. In his ears were tucked small earbuds, bouncing a relaxing indie playlist directly against his eardrums.

           The curtains were drawn, blocking out the fading evening sun. From his door came a gentle knock. So absorbed in his music and his work, Damian did not notice immediately; the knock paused, then came once again, louder now. If Damian noticed, he did not answer. Another, longer pause: and then the doorknob twisted and the door swung open. At the threshold, Damian’s father knocked once more against the open door, then called, “Damian.”

           At the sound of his name, Damian immediately stopped and twisted around in his seat. Looking at his father, he pulled the earbuds out and asked, “What?”

           “Do you have a minute?”

           A hint of suspicion entered Damian’s face. “Why?” he asked.

           Bruce gave a shrug, entering the room. “I need a reason to have a conversation with my son?”

           It looked like Damian had a response to this, but he held his tongue. Setting aside the mechanical pencil in his hand, he gestured towards his bed, offering his father a seat. Bruce obliged, leaving the door open.

           There was a small silence between them, as Damian turned in his seat to face his father. It wasn’t exactly awkward; the past year had been a long and difficult one, and there had been growing pains of the variety they both had once thought they’d overcome. And yet grown they had, and come out the other side intact and, Bruce was certain, although Damian might not agree – both better for it.

           Hands clasped before him, Bruce leaned forward, locking eyes with his son. For not the first time Damian wondered at how clear and harsh his father’s irises were, the steely blue of the sky during a clear winter day in Gotham. Damian had not inherited his father’s eyes: his were an earthy dark brown, darker even than his mother’s. He did not know where his dark eyes came from; his grandfather too had Talia's honey-hazel eyes. He could only assume the black of his eyes came from his mother’s mother. He would never know.

           To Damian’s absolute surprise, Bruce led with this: “You’ve done very well this past year, Damian. I’m very proud of you. I hope you know that.”

           Damian’s eyebrows shot upwards. He halfway glanced around him, as if checking to make sure that the rest of the family wasn’t lurking in the corners of his room, waiting to jump out and shout, _Surprise!_

           Graciously, Bruce gave a little nod and admitted, “You had a rough start. But we made it through. I’m very impressed at how hard you’ve been working at school this past semester – your symposium was extraordinary. I had no idea how much time and effort you’d been putting into your project.”

           “It’s a thesis,” corrected Damian. “Not a project.”

           “Your thesis,” agreed Bruce, bowing his head in apology. “Listen, Damian. My point is, I believe it’s time to put your regular patrol back on the table.”

           Bruce had expected Damian to light up at the opportunity; on the contrary, his son just eyed him warily. “ _On the table_ ,” echoed Damian. “What does that mean?”

           “It means I don’t expect you to resume your old schedule and duties all at once,” Bruce answered. “You’re out of practice.”

           “Whose fault is that?”

           “Yours,” answered Bruce calmly, with no malice in his voice. “But you’ve served your penance, and you’ve proved to me how responsible you can be. You deserve it.”

           Damian still only watched his father, a slight frown on his brow. He tapped his left index finger against his desk, in bursts of threes. _One-two-three_ , _one-two-three_ , _one-two-three_.

           “You really trust me with this?” asked Damian. “You’re prepared to allow me to return to Robin?”

           “Knowing you,” sighed Bruce, “I expect you never really left.” He gave his son a furtive little smile. “But yes. It’s time. Of course I trust you.”

           “Even after everything I did?”

           “Even after all of that. You aren’t the first of us to make a mistake, Damian.”

           “It was a lot of mistakes.”

           Bruce watched his son, though kept the smile on his face. “Why does it feel like you’re trying to make a fight out of this?”

           Damian’s jaw clenched as he stared at his father blankly, as if looking straight past him. Then he let out a long breath and turned back to the designs before him, fiddling with the side of the paper. “I don’t know. It’s been a long time without it.”

           “Almost a year.”

           “I applied to grad school,” said Damian, suddenly. He glanced at his father. “And I got in.”

           Taken aback, Bruce blinked at his son. He had not known this. “Oh,” he said. “Congratulations. Where?”

           “UCLA.”

           Los Angeles. Far away from dark, dingy Gotham. For some reason, there was a sharp, piercing pain deep in Bruce’s chest.

           All the same, Bruce managed to ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?” Damian shrugged. “Does Alfred know?” Damian shook his head. “For an MBA?”

           “MFA.”

           Art. This was a lot to take in at once. Bruce took a deep breath, and sat up straight, blinking at the ground. Then he looked up at his son. “Are you going to go?”

           Damian watched his father. That look of almost-boredom had returned to his expression. He gave a noncommittal half-shrug, then shook his head. “No,” he said, looking back at the designs on his desk. “Probably not.”

           Quickly, genuinely, Bruce said, “If you want it, you should go. Of course you should go.”

           “I don’t really want to,” said Damian, taking up his pencil again, tracing down a line. “I just thought I’d apply, in case my career as Robin was over and I had to find something else to live for.” He glanced up at his father and saw how this troubled him, so he added, “I'm joking. I wouldn’t be your son if I didn’t have contingencies upon contingencies. This was just one of them.”

           Bruce was unsure about the direction of this conversation. “So…you do want to return to Robin.”

           “I do, yes,” answered Damian smartly, as if this were a business negotiation. “Although I think you’re right. It would be unwise to jump back into it completely. I’d like to ease my way back in.”

           “Of course. I can ask Dick to visit, if you’d like to having him patrol with you when I can’t.”

           “No, it’s fine. Ellen and her team are good enough, and Tim’s in town if we need him.”

           Damian resumed sketching at his desk. Somehow Bruce didn’t feel like this conversation was over.

           In gray early morning, when the Batman returned from patrol and retired to bed, Bruce had sometimes lain awake and allowed his mind to wander. This was when he allowed time for his most acute fears to enter his mind, those he could not admit in the daytime nor on the job. When Damian was fourteen, and his OCD was beginning to manifest in compulsions and imagined and real violence, Bruce had spent many dawns wondering what treatment might do to his son. He had steeled himself for the possibility that with medication and counselling, Damian might not want to return to Robin. It wasn’t the first time it had occurred to Bruce that being Robin might be bad for a child, but Damian had always slipped into the role so easily, as if he had been waiting his whole life for the mantle.

           In the end, treatment had only made Damian more ready and capable to take on his work as Robin – it had allowed him to connect in meaningful ways with the Titans, particularly with one young Iris West. Even though it had been over a year since the end of their relationship and the dissolution of the Titans, it was still clear to Bruce that Damian missed them terribly. He missed friendship, connection; intimacy. All these things from which the Batman had for so many years had forbidden himself.

           “Damian,” said Bruce. “Listen to me.”

           Damian paused in his sketching to glance at his father.

           Very seriously, very clearly, Bruce told his son: “You should know that you don’t have to go back to Robin. You never have to, if you don’t want to.”

           “Of course I want to,” said Damian, annoyance flickering across his face.

           “All I’m saying,” Bruce continued, “is that this doesn’t have to be forever. You don’t owe anything to me, and you certainly don’t owe anything to this city.”

           Damian stared at Bruce for one moment. His jaw jumped slightly, then he turned back to the desk before him, then once more turned around to address Bruce. “How can you say that to me?” he asked, though it was with half-hearted venom, as if the words tasted bitter in his mouth. “My whole life I’ve been trained for one thing, and now you’re telling me all that was purposeless?”

           Taken aback, Bruce began, “That’s not what I said.”

           Shaking his head, Damian turned back to his work, though he did not once more place pencil against paper. Bruce reached out and put a hand on his son’s shoulder.  “It’s all right, son. I hope you know that I value your happiness and health over anything else you could be for me. Batman and Robin, the Cave, all of that? It doesn’t matter. Not compared to you.”

           “Yes it does,” Damian murmured. Bruce didn’t argue with him.

            After another moment of silence, Damian spoke once more.

           “I’d like to go abroad,” he said.

           Bruce raised an eyebrow.

           “Not permanently,” he added, glancing at his father. “Not – as Robin. Which I do want. I do. But if you really do trust me, then I think I should be able to spend some time…alone. Away from Gotham.”

           Bruce considered this. “Where abroad?”

           Damian answered immediately. “London.”

           London, where he could explore the English moors of part of his childhood. London, where Damian had been handed off to Bruce by Talia in the first place. Bruce felt a dull ache in his stomach.

           “Fine,” said Bruce. “You can take the jet. Or fly commercial if you like. I don’t mind either way.” He paused, then added, “I have just one request.”

           Damian nodded anxiously at his father.

           With a wry little smile, Bruce said, “You must stay for your graduation first.” Damian started to make a face, and Bruce continued, “No, no. You’ve spent three years at Princeton, you’ve put so much work into this degree – degree _s_ , I mean – and I won’t let you walk away from it without being properly honored.”

           With a roll of his eyes, Damian argued, “It’s just a ceremony. It’ll be boring – if you’re coming there’ll be paparazzi, it’ll be awful-”

           “It will be very nice,” said Bruce firmly. “I look forward to it.”

           Patting his son on the shoulder, Bruce got to his feet.

           “I’m very proud of you, Damian,” he said. “And I love you very much.”

           Damian just kind of shrugged him off. Bruce waited expectantly.

           When Damian noticed, he let out a loud breath. “I love you too,” he muttered, like chewing glass. “Will you leave me alone to do my work now?”

—

           Damian graduated on a warm, clear day in June; he wore his gown over a three-piece suit, stole and cords draped around his neck. Bruce Wayne and his family had special VIP seats, and they cheered for Damian when he crossed the stage to receive his diploma.

           Because Damian did not like paparazzi, and because he had made no friends at Princeton with whom he’d like to share any final moments together at university, they left the event quickly. By nightfall Damian had one single small bag packed. Alfred drove him to the airport, and gave him a hug before he passed through security. Damian reluctantly returned the embrace, feeling slightly awkward when Alfred squeezed his arm and told him, “You cannot know how proud you have made this old man, Master Damian.”

           He flew business class into London Heathrow, then drove into the heart of London to take up residence in a Penthouse flat Bruce kept on reserve as a safehouse there. It was empty and cold. There was a master bedroom, and then a smaller bedroom off the kitchen. Damian left his small suitcase in the smaller bedroom, but did not unpack.

           The last time he’d been in London had been spent mostly ushering him around in tunnels beneath the city, only to release him onto the docks to meet his father for the first time. After the dissolution of the Titans, his father had brought him back to England on his request, but they had spent two days and a night there only, just enough time for Damian to visit the compound where he was raised, then leave and promise himself never to return.

           Damian spent his day in London, lingering in the pews of St. Paul’s. The gigantic structure was familiar to him somehow, old and dignified. As he sat on the bare wooden pew, staring up at the stained glass before him, he thought his mother must’ve taken him here before. He was sure of it.

           Before the sun had fully risen come the next morning, Damian took a taxi all the way out to London Gatwick airport, where he boarded a plane with a fake British passport (although technically he was born on British soil, and he had considered before filing for dual citizenship). He flew economy, sitting in the window seat of a row filled by an elderly couple speaking rapidly in Hungarian. Damian had been taught the language years ago, but was not overly familiar with it: he spent the flight listening to the old couple intently, puzzling together the syntax and the vocabulary from context. When the plane landed, before he disembarked, Damian turned to the older couple and said, “ _Remélem szép napod van._ ”

           The first thing Damian did in Budapest was buy a burner phone and send a text to a number he had already memorized. After that, he went to his hotel and checked in under an assumed name. It was a good hotel, though not of the grandiose sort his father always picked, and it was more secure than a safehouse, anyhow – depending on from whom you wanted security.

           June is burning hot in Budapest, and Damian shed his jacket before venturing out once more into the city. He rolled up the sleeves of his nice button-up shirt as he walked, eyes obscured by gold-rimmed sunglasses. Regretfully, he wished he’d thought to bring his water bottle with him – he so hated buying plastic disposable water bottles, no matter how thirsty the searing sun shining relentlessly down from the bright blue sky made him.

           He crossed a bridge to the eastern side of the city, Pest, then turned immediately to descend a flight of worn stone steps leading down to the bank of the River Danube. The river was low today, and a muddy green. He sat alongside the bank, hanging his legs off the edge. His toes very nearly breached the surface of the water.

           Taking the burner phone out of his pocket, he sent another text to that same mysterious number. Then he placed the phone down on the stone bank beside him, and leaned back at his hands, watching the sun glitter across the Danube.

           She appeared beside him like a cool breeze on the hot summer day; one moment she was not there, and then suddenly appeared a body by his side, her red hair fluttering slightly in the gust that heralded her arrival.

           Iris West sat close enough on the edge of the bank that her leg brushed against his, and Damian could not help the pang of something in his chest, as if his heart skipped a beat. She smiled at him. It had been almost a year since they last saw each other, since Damian walked away from the Titans, and from her. Even now, Damian could not say exactly why he had left: he had been scared, and hurt, and these vulnerabilities had been too painful to touch, much less admit to the girl he loved.

           The word turned over and over again in Damian’s mind in the few seconds that she smiled at him, before any words passed either of their lips. _Loved. I loved you_.

           It felt like an eternity ago.

           “Hey,” she said.

           He realized he hadn’t returned her smile, but knew that it would look even more forced if he tried now. “Hello,” he answered. “Where’s Lian?”

           “She’s on her way,” said Iris, nodding up towards the bridge. “She said I should probably run ahead, so you and I could get over the whole awkward-exes thing before she gets here.”

           “Ah,” said Damian. “That’s wise.”

           “Yeah,” said Iris.

           There was a pause. It was, in fact, awkward.

           “So,” began Iris, “is that not going to happen, or…?”

           Despite himself, Damian felt a small flicker of anger; this was easy for her, obviously. She had spent the year or so in the arms of someone else, exploring a new world, with no one to stop her or punish her as he had been punished. He knew precisely how petty it was, but it wasn’t fair.

           It hurt Damian, to still have that anger in him, that bitterness and resentment, after all the time and effort he’d put into purging it from his mind and soul. He was better now, he was sure of it: he had worked so hard, paid his price, completed his penance. And yet.

           Damian turned his body to face her, but did not quite catch her eye. “Lian told me this had to do with business.”

           Iris’s face didn’t fall, which Damian admired. “It does. But one doesn’t do business with one’s ex-girlfriend without feeling a little weird about it, so let’s air out some dirty laundry before my current girlfriend gets here, OK?”

           Abruptly, Damian asked, “You’re still seeing Lian?”

           “Yes,” said Iris.

           Glumly, Damian looked out at the water. “I was half hoping you’d lie to me.”

           “I told myself I wouldn’t,” answered Iris, watching him. “Lian said it was fine, but I respect you too much to do that to you.”

           “You shouldn’t,” said Damian bitterly. “I don’t deserve it.”

           Iris put a hand on Damian’s arm. “Yes, you do. But don’t expect me to try and console you too hard, you’re gonna have to find another significant other to take care of that one.”

           “I’m trying this new thing,” remarked Damian, forced levity in his voice. “It’s called, being alone.”

           “Oh? You sure that’s new, Damian? Because you always gave me the impression that was your default state of being. All dark and broody, you get it from your dad, I bet.” Her dark eyes watched him intently, with a gaze half-human, almost reptilian in focus. For one moment, consumed by her gaze, Damian thought about telling her everything: about the club, about the women and men whose names he didn’t know, about Colin, about Nell. About being banned from his role as Robin for almost a year now, a refusal of the identity he sometimes thought defined him more than being himself did.

           Iris reached up and cupped his face in one hand, brushing her thumb across his cheek.

           “I missed you,” she said.

           Damian couldn’t pull his eyes away from hers. She was mesmerizing: he had forgotten, almost, the electricity of her touch, how she always seemed crackling with energy and power, even when she sat calmly beside him on the bank of a river. The thought occurred to him to lean over and kiss her, but the moment it rose it twisted and squirmed in his stomach, making him feel ill.

           She removed her hand, and before Damian could say anything else, the burner phone on the stone on the other side of him flew in a wide arc across the water, then sunk into the depths. Pulse skyrocketing with adrenaline, Damian whipped around, ready to fight, instinctually dropping into a defensive stance in front of Iris – and then he stopped.

           “Oh,” he said.

           “Calm the fuck down, Bruce Lee,” Lian said, rolling her eyes at Damian. “You had to get rid of that burner sometime, didn’t you?” Ignoring Damian, who still stood, Lian lowering herself to sit on the bank, leaving room for Damian between herself and Iris. For a moment, she massaged the toe which had kicked the phone, then she dropped her legs. Significantly shorter than either Iris or Damian, Lian’s feet didn’t even come close to touching the water. She swung them up and down against the stone, like a kid in a high chair. To Iris, she asked, “Are you guys done, or is this going to continue to be uncomfortable for all of us? Because, honestly, if it’s the latter option I might as well just drown myself right now-”

           “Just as tactful as ever I see, Lian,” said Damian, slowly lowering himself to sit between the two girls.

           “And you’re just as annoying as ever,” she replied sharply, pinching at the sleeve of his fancy dress shirt. “Is it possible for you to just like, chill out and wear a t-shirt for once in your goddamn life?”

           “I think you look good,” added Iris.

           “I mean, you look _good_ ,” continued Lian pointedly, “but that shirt is way too expensive to sweat right through. Why don’t we go find someplace to eat?”

           Gesturing at the empty riverbank around them, Damian asked, “Didn’t you want somewhere clandestine?”

           “Yeah, but that was before I realized you were going to die of heatstroke. Come on,” she said, getting to her feet, then offering a hand to Damian. When Damian looked unconvinced, she waved her hand impatiently at him. “Come on, it’s not like anyone genuinely followed you all the way out here to Budapest. Who gives that much of a shit about a kid who isn’t even Robin anymore?”

           Something stabbed through Damian’s heart, constricting his lungs with iron wires. In disbelief, he glanced around at Iris, who offered him an apologetic smile. “We might have been…keeping tabs on you.”

           “I happen to have a contact with insider knowledge about your whole family,” said Lian, causing Damian’s head to snap around to look at her once again. She grinned at him. “I know all your secrets, little bird.”

           “She’s kidding,” said Iris, over his shoulder. “Every once in a while Dick tells stuff to her dad, and her dad tells her. Like, I heard you graduated college! Congrats!”

           Numbly, Damian answered, “Thanks.”

           After a moment’s uncertain pause, Iris got to her feet, and with Lian’s help they managed to tug Damian upright. “C’mon,” said Iris, leading the way. “We passed this yummy place earlier, it smelled so good…”

           It was a small café, and they slid into a booth in a corner. Damian sat with his back against the wall, so he could keep his eyes on both entrances to the place. Iris sat next to him, and Lian across from them both. Iris ordered appetizers as soon as they sat down, starting with an order of calamari and _p_ _rosciutto e melone_.

           After the waiter went away, Damian looked at Lian and asked, “So would you like to tell me, finally, why this isn’t a conversation we could’ve had within the borders of the United States?”

           “Mostly ‘cause I figured you could use a break,” answered Lian, with a shrug. “Isn’t good for a young kid like yourself to be stuck inside that shithole of a city for too long.”

           “ _Young kid_ ,” repeated Damian, with just a hint of venom. “I’m older than you are.”

           Lian didn’t protest, but replied, “Barely. Anyhow, Iris and I have been busy taking down big crime rings all over Europe, and we didn’t exactly have time for a trip back home just to talk with you.”

           “Iris is a,” began Damian, but the waiter appeared again, bringing the calamari and prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe. He waited until the server was once more gone, then lowered his voice and restarted. “Iris is a speedster, and you’re trying to tell me you didn’t have _time_ to come back?”

           Lian’s half-smile didn’t falter. “Not if we were only coming to see you, no.”

           This did not hurt, because Damian had preemptively steeled himself against Lian’s harshness, and also because it was almost like some kind of a relief to have someone here with him who didn’t put up with any of his whining. And not in a patronizing way, like his father – but just because she didn’t care. It would be nice, Damian thought, it would be a blessing, if he could learn from Lian how to care less.

           “You two haven’t seen your parents in over a year,” Damian said, leaning back slightly in his seat. Beside him, Iris dipped the calamari generously into the tartar sauce she had requested. “You wouldn’t return home to reassure them you’re safe?”

           “My mom and dad actually visited us a couple months ago,” Iris piped up, holding a calamari ring in hand; then she paused, made a face, and corrected, “Well, not at the same time – my mom flew in for a few days in Paris, but my dad visited when we were in Berlin.”

           Damian glanced at Iris, then his gaze flickered back to Lian, who said nothing. He knew for a fact that Lian had not seen her father since they left. She had not seen anyone, really, since the disaster with the Titans the previous year.

           He wondered if she felt guilt, like he did. After all, he may have been the one to trigger the psychic control in Iris’s mind, but Lian had been the one to implant it in Iris’s head in the first place. And last time he and Lian had seen each other, she’d poisoned him, dislocated his jaw, broke three ribs, and shot him in the back.

           So: yeah, a normal person should be feeling a little bit of guilt, even if she had been mind-controlled by her assassin mother at the time. Damian figured Lian was just good at hiding it which, again, was another thing to begrudgingly admire her for.

           “Why me?” asked Damian, his voice low. “What could I possibly do for you that you couldn’t get more easily from someone else?”

           “It’s not a matter of ease,” answered Lian coolly. “You’re here right now not because you’re the only one who can help us, but you are the only one who’ll keep his mouth shut about it.”

           Damian’s pulse quickened slightly. His first thought was that they were about to ask him to join them, to utilize the skills he’d been taught for years now to repress. In that split second, he made his decision: _Yes. I would kill for them_.

           Then, disgusted at himself, he immediately drove that thought from his brain.

           “Damian,” said Iris, nudging him, holding up a piece of cantaloupe. “You want some?”

           Barely glancing at her, Damian replied, “I can’t, I’m vegetarian.”

           “I _know_ ,” replied Iris, with a dopey grin. “I took the prosciutto off. Seriously, Damian? We dated for two years and you think I don’t remember you don’t eat meat?”

           She held the cantaloupe up to his face, as if to pop it into his mouth; he plucked it out of his fingers, then said to Lian, “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

           Taking a calamari ring off the plate, Lian replied bluntly, “I need fifteen thousand dollars and enough weaponry to pass as a small arms trafficker.”

           Damian watched Lian as she popped the calamari into her mouth. He, too, took a thoughtful bite of his cantaloupe. Iris said, “Do either of you want the spaghetti? I kind of do but I also kind of want the schnitzel. You can get the spaghetti with a mushroom sauce, Damian, no meat.” Neither Damian nor Lian replied.

           Iris’s gaze flickered from her girlfriend to her ex, and then she added, “It’s for a good thing, y’know. We wouldn’t be asking for it if it wasn’t.”

           Sharply, Damian said, “I know.”

           “Then what’s the problem?” asked Lian, leaning in across the table. Clearly she and Iris had been staying in sunny regions, for Lian’s skin was deeply tanned such that she was within a shade or two of Damian’s own coloring, which had darkened over the past few months as he spent more time outside tending to his garden, and less time in uniform in the dark. “If you trust us, a loan and some tech shouldn’t be a problem.”

           Staring at her, Damian asked, “Is it really a loan, Lian?”

           Almost before Damian had finished answering his question, Iris nudged him in the ribs and offered, “It could be if you wanted, though I know you’re more generous than that.”

           “With a billionaire daddy like yours,” Lian added wryly, “it’d be pretty selfish not to be.”

           “If you wanted a grant from my father, there actually exists an organization for that,” Damian said curtly. “I’m sure Batman, Incorporated would be happy to help you with your missions.”

           “Sure,” said Lian. “But we didn’t go to Batman Inc., now, did we? We came to you.”

           “Why?” demanded Damian, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. “It’s not like you don’t-”

           The waiter returned again, this time asking for entrees. Lian got a hamburger; Iris ordered the schnitzel. Damian got the mushroom linguine, and a Manhattan.

           Voice lowered once more, Damian leaned forward, pointing an accusatory finger at Lian. “You don’t need money,” he whispered. “You’ve got the entire Queen fortune behind you if you wanted, I don’t know why you think you have the right to drag me out here-”

           Rolling her eyes, Lian began, “Oh, my _God_ , Damian, I didn’t _drag_ you out here, I sent you one goddamn text. Besides, obviously this is the sort of money I can’t ask my dad for, but I’d hoped you’d be tactful enough not to point that out. I already feel bad enough about leaving him as is.”

           “You could always go back,” suggested Damian, feeling cold and angry inside for reasons he could not accurately define. “You could, oh, I don’t know, go back to being a regular fucking nineteen-year-old instead of backpacking around Europe under the guise of crime fighting.”

           Coolly, Lian correctly, “I’m eighteen.”

           “Oh, don’t be condescending,” sighed Iris, reaching out to paw at Damian, pull him back across the table so he no longer leaned threateningly towards Lian. “All of us needed a break after what happened with the Titans, you know that. We’re just using our break to do some good.”

           This struck at Damian’s heart, as if deliberate. “As opposed to me,” he shot back at her, “who spent the past year feeling sorry for myself, is that what you’re trying to say?”

           “No,” said Iris, placing a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “No, of course not-”

           Flinching violently away from her touch, Damian continued heatedly, “I didn’t _ask_ for this, you know. I never asked to be Robin and I certainly never asked to quit. So you don’t get to sit there and judge me, Lian, pretend like you’re doing the world some great service while I sit at home and twiddle my thumbs – you don’t fool me. This isn’t about saving the world. It’s about indulging yourself.”

           “Maybe it is,” answered Lian, her eyes glinting, knife-like, but she goaded him no further. If Damian realized that him speaking loudly and openly about his dual life as Robin was the most unsettling thing about this conversation so far, he made no indication of it.

           There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence, then Iris leaned back in her seat and sighed, “That’s a little bit unfair. Pretty much all we ever did with the Titans was self-indulgent bullshit.”

           Lian added, “Except for trying to kill each other, that is.”

           “Nobody ended up dead,” Iris pointed out, with a nod towards Lian. “So it’s fine.”

           Damian turned to Iris and, pitilessly, he said: “Your brother is in a coma, Irey. He’s on life support. It’s – _fine_?”

           All warmth immediately evaporated from Iris’s expression. She looked, suddenly, steely and frightening, so quickly and completely that it made her smile seem so insincere.

           Lian glared at Damian.

           Quietly, she told him, “I’ve been tracking my mother for eight months now. We’re almost there, but I can’t get to the finish line alone. I need your help, and I’m not too proud to ask for it.”

           “Yeah, right,” Damian shot back derisively. “As if you would’ve ever come to me, had Iris not been here with you.”

           “Don’t flatter yourself,” said Iris shortly. “I didn’t want to call you.”

           This hurt Damian, and he suspected that she intended it to do so.

           Food arrived. It smelled delicious, and none of them spoke any more than a mumbled, “Thank you,” to the server until their meals were distributed.

           Lian dragged a French fry through ketchup as Iris cut into her schnitzel. Damian did not touch his food; he could not, he felt ill. Passing through time zones had caused him to sleep at odd hours, and somewhere along the way he had missed a dose of medication.  He could not stand the idea of eating. Any other symptoms, for the moment he buried them deep, refusing to feel their familiar sting.

           Tightly, as the girls ate, Damian said: “So you’ve tipped your hand. You need money and resources to go after Cheshire. Is that it?”

           “Ding-ding-ding,” said Lian, hardly looking up at him. “No shit, Sherlock.”

           “You could’ve led with that.”

           “What, and stir up your own assassin-based mommy issues? No thanks.”

           This felt like a lie, but Damian couldn’t tell. “Fifteen thousand dollars,” he said.

           With an exaggerated shrug, Lian said, “That’s nothing. A drop in the pond for the Waynes.”

            _Or the al Ghuls_. Perhaps out of spite for Lian’s crack about mommy issues, Damian’s mind went immediately to the offshore account his mother had opened for him last year, when he turned eighteen. He had never touched a cent of that money, ashamed and angry at his mother for it. But…there was no sense in leaving a growing bank account there to rot.

           “And weaponry?”

           “Basic stuff,” added Iris. “Nothing too fancy. We could probably buy our own with a little more money, but that leaves a paper trail, so. You know.”

           “Ironic,” said Damian, his dark eyes focused on Lian, who ate her food methodically, without looking at him. “That a girl named Arsenal would be looking to fill up her stock.”

           “I have enough of what I have,” said Lian. “What we’re looking for isn’t tasers and boxing-glove arrows, Damian, it’s firearms. Real stuff. The kind of things we’re not allowed to use in our line of work.”

           “So, what, you’re racketeering like Red Hood now?”

           “We just need enough to front, it’s not like we need to make a profit on this.”

           Clearly troubled, Damian muttered, “Certainly if it’s not a fucking loan, anyway.”

           There was a silence. It was cool inside the restaurant, despite the windows thrown open to allow fresh air flowing through the small space. The place was entirely lit by natural light which spilled in from the windows, with high ceilings and a wrought iron spiral staircase up into a concealed second floor. Lian and Iris had checked the place out earlier, searched for bugs, set up dampeners. It was safe to speak here. Damian did not know this, and yet he had been the most reckless of the three of them in their conversation, paying no regard to keeping secrets he had been raised to treasure above all else. Vaguely, Lian wondered if this was because he had been out of uniform for so long, or if there was something else going on, something that had changed Damian more than she knew.

           He tapped his fingers against the dark wood of the table. _One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three_.

           The girls ate in silence. Damian’s Manhattan rested sadly before his plate, untouched.

           “I’ll do it,” he said.

           Lian stopped. She exchanged a glance with Iris, then looked back at Damian warily.

           He held up one finger. “On one condition.”

           While Lian made a face, Iris nodded. “OK,” she said. “OK, what’s that?”

           For a long moment Damian said nothing. He placed both of his hands on the flat of the table, then curled them both into fists, as if gathering up the courage to hit something.

           Then he said, “Don’t contact me. Don’t talk to me, don’t call me or ask me to fly across an ocean to see you. We don’t make _this_ ,” he gestured between the three of them, at their food, “a thing that happens anymore. You don’t tell me what you’re doing, whose contracts you’re taking, what missions you’ve completed. I don’t want to know any of it, and I don’t want to hear from you.” He cast a look, almost apologetic, Iris’s way. “Either of you. It’s time – it’s time I moved forward. No. It’s time I moved _on_.”

           Damian did not know this, because the only way he had learned to protect his heart was to pretend he could not tell what others felt, how badly he could hurt them, but he had misjudged, terribly, how much he meant to both of the women beside him. And yet there was no safe way to tell him otherwise. They needed him; and if this was the only way he would fulfill their need, then they did not have much of a choice.

           “OK,” said Lian, taken aback. Half-sarcastically, she asked, “Am I allowed to hit you up for more money, or is that like, also a thing we’re not going to be doing?”

           He considered this, then answered, “Message me when you need more. You know my number.”

           Another long, hard silence.

           Iris lifted her hand and reached out for him. “Damian-”

           He pulled away. “No.”

           After a moment’s pause, he slid out of his seat, getting to his feet. Taking a wallet out of his pocket, he took out a few bills and dropped them onto the table. “Just send me your information and I’ll wire you the money when I get home,” he said. “I’ll see you two.”

           “Damian,” said Iris, as he turned away and headed towards the entrance of the restaurant. She too got to her feet. “Damian-!”

           Without looking back, he left the restaurant and turned abruptly down the street, and then he was gone.

           Iris and Lian were left alone in a mostly-empty restaurant, three plates of food still before them. Lian picked at her plate while Iris slowly sat back down.

           For a solitary moment, Lian watched Iris. Then she said: “It’s fine. He’ll get over it.”

           Iris sat at the table with her girlfriend, passive and regretful.

—

             Standing in Heathrow airport a few days later, Damian looked up at the Departures board. In another few hours there was a flight out to Los Angeles. Something tugged at him deep in his body. He could go to California; accept the offer of grad school at UCLA, study sculpture or painting or whatever exactly it had been he’d applied for. One plane ticket, and he could walk away from it all.

           He boarded his flight to Gotham with no incident. On the plane he watched a sad movie. When the dog died, he cried.

           Damian returned to Wayne Manor in a taxi on Thursday morning. He paid the taxi driver and tipped him 200%, then fished a key out of his bag and placed his thumb against a scanner to unlock the door. Trailing his single suitcase in hand behind him, phone held in his other hand, he passed by the sitting room on his way to his room.

           His father sat in an armchair, reading the paper; when Damian passed by, he blinked in surprise. “Damian,” he called, and Damian stopped, then headed back to stand before the entrance to the sitting room. Bruce regarded him with a degree of disbelief, as if he was unsure this was the same boy who’d left just a few days ago. “You’re home.”

           “I am,” agreed Damian. “I just flew into Goodwin International.”

           Lowering his newspaper, Bruce replied, “I didn’t realize you were coming home so early. You should’ve called; I would have picked you up.”

           “It’s fine,” said Damian, dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t want to trouble you.”

           “No trouble at all. Welcome back.” There was a slight pause, and then Bruce asked, “What made you leave London so soon?”

           Damian stood there before his father, his suitcase beside him. In his other hand, his phone buzzed: confirmation, as he had requested from Lian, that his bank transfer of fifteen thousand dollars had gone through.

           “No reason,” answered Damian with a shrug. His grip tightened on his phone. “I was lonely, I suppose.”


End file.
